At length, however, two young men, laughing and talking rather loudly, sauntered through the room. One of them paused.
“Here are a couple,” he said, indicating the chairs.
His companion, an undersized, dapper individual, whose raiment—suit, socks, shirt, shoes, hat and tie—might comprehensively be described as a symphony in brown, paused also, turned and looked at the chairs, then at the table, and finally at the captain.
“Yes,” he drawled, regarding the latter fixedly, “so I see. Well, perhaps we can't do better. This place is getting too infernally common, though. Don't think I shall come here again. If it wasn't that they put up the best cocktail in town I should have quit before. All right, this will have to do, I suppose.”
He seated himself in one of the chairs. His friend followed suit. The watchful waiter was on hand immediately.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, bowing obsequiously.
Neither of the young men acknowledged the bow or the greeting, although it was evident that the waiter was an old acquaintance. The symphony in brown did not even turn his head.
“Two dry Martinis,” he said. “And mind that they ARE dry. Have Charlie make them himself. If that other fellow does it I'll send them back.”
“Yes, sir. All right, sir. Will you have a bit of lunch with them, sir? Caviare sandwich or—”
“No.”